


The Closet of Procreation

by Anonymous



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breeding, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderswap, M/M, Magical Pregnancy, Overstimulation, Pregnancy, Sex Pollen, Temple of Procreation (Red vs. Blue), Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2020-07-08 09:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19867633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "...And [Grif] likes long walks on the beach, and uh, he's secretly in love with Simmons. And one day they're gonna have a baby. When science makes that possible."





	1. Chapter 1

Okay, so, it was a dumb series of events that got them both where they were. Just, indescribably stupid random every day accidents, even for them--which Simmons had to admit to himself is some kind of record breaking accomplishment--that led into a life-changing mess of alien technology.

The whole mess started with a mission in one of those alien towers, because of course it did. The Blues had been working with them since they joined the inhabitants of Chorus, so they’d never escape alien bullshit. 

Since the civil war had ended, and clean-up efforts and rebuilding the colony were underway, Kimball was sending all available hands on relief missions, but there were reports of surviving pirates banding together and ambushing troops bringing vital supplies and relief to settlers on the outskirts of Chorus. 

Murderous outlaws hiding out in the hills and robbing the relief parties would mean more death for people who hadn’t gotten supplies in too long already. The Reds and Blues might be kinda done with the war stuff, but they knew what it was like to be stuck in a forgotten outpost and run out of strawberry yoohoo, so when Kimball asked them to help clear out pirate stragglers while she was readying Retirement Planet, it was hard to say no without seeming like a heartless asshole. 

But they hadn’t been able to sweep the alien temple sites in a while, and that’s where the reports of ambushes were coming from right now, presumably trying to get more alien guns to take down more teenage soldiers. 

At least they were nice, easy missions. Most of the pirates they caught surrendered on the spot, in no eager rush to die now that payday wasn’t coming. 

Frankly, Simmons didn’t even need to be here. They had enough firepower, and people who _wanted_ to do it, with Tucker and Sarge. But Grif got it in his head that going out on a mission was easier than reorganizing the armory like they were _supposed_ to be doing, so there they were. 

Simmons tuned back into Tucker’s running commentary, and Sarge’s complaining about the lack of action at this temple--valid since the last three sites had all looked the same with their glowy lights and no murderers waiting to murder them. But there was a voice missing. 

...Where the fuck was Grif? 

Simmons stopped where he stood, looking back at the main chamber where they’d come from. He was _just there_ complaining with the rest of them. Where the hell could he have split off from the group? Why would he wander off during a mission? 

Did someone grab him and knock him out? Were they planning to use him as a hostage? 

Simmons hustled to backtrack to the cavernous main room. And then he smelled it. 

_-Did Grif split off from the group during a mission to find a place to smoke?!_ That _asshole…_

This temple looked more like the inside of a brain than the usual smooth buildings, the seamless glowing lights dimming and humming, but it still didn’t look like there was anywhere to go. 

Simmons had learned to never underestimate Grif’s talent for spotting hiding spots though... 

“If I were Grif, where would I-- Ah ha!” Simmons said, spotting a perfectly semi-shadowed hallway to the right. Tucker and Sarge had already wandered off, arguing about something stupid, so Simmons went after Grif. If anything actually serious happened they were all on comms anyway. 

Even if Simmons hadn’t smelled the cigarette smoke, Grif’s hidey hole would have been obvious. At the end of the hall was a door, dimmed and half open, but clearly emblazoned with a fancy mark that looked a lot like Tucker’s sword. Lots of intertwined swirls too, but mostly the sword. Simmons only took note of it because it was some of the only decoration he’d seen in any of these temples. 

The mechanism was powered down and stalled halfway, and Simmons had to squeeze passed the panel of metal. He’d act surprised Grif could fit, but fat jokes were ancient history and Simmons had seen Grif squeeze into tighter hiding place than this. Just as he thought, there was Grif, cigarette light glowing a warm orange in the darkness. He wasn’t even sitting up! Laying back on some soft looking mattress thing just… floating in the center of the room. Literally. It was a good half a foot off the ground. 

Grif had his helmet off, of course. Simmons wasn’t exactly subtle coming in, but Grif didn’t even bother to sit up. 

“Hey,” he said. He sucked in a long drag and blew it out in a lazy cloud. “You gonna hover in the doorway or actually come in? This bed is comfy as fuck.” 

“You don’t even know that’s a bed!” Simmons said, because his brain usually responded to what Grif said last instead of the actually important parts of whatever was going on. “It could be some alien-- whatever!” 

“It’s a big soft surface. What the hell else would you use it for?” 

“I don’t know, I’m not an alien!” Simmons shrieked. “And besides, what are you even doing here? We’re supposed to be sweeping the base. If you aren’t gonna do your actual job you could at least do the job you took to avoid that job!” 

Grif rolled upright with as little effort as possible. “Come on, Simmons. You know this is a bust. Place is empty, and it’s break time. It’s not like we’re getting paid overtime for this. Or y’know. At all.” 

Simmons couldn’t really argue with that. The Temples were big, but not big enough to stage a proper ambush, so if any left over pirates were here they would have attacked or surrendered by now. So Simmons conceded the point to Grif by moving on to an entirely different argument, as per long established custom. “So you decided the thing to do was wander off and ruin those lungs I gave you.” 

Grif rolled his eyes. “I’m giving them something to do. It’s good for them. Like exercise.” He attempted to blow a smoke ring, as they heard footsteps and Tucker’s loud excited chatter interspersed with Sarge’s yelling coming back down the hall. 

Tucker shouted down. “Hey, did you assholes sneak off to make out?” 

“Fuck off, Tucker,” they both said in unison. 

Grif sighed. “They couldn’t have taken longer? It hasn’t even been the standard fifteen minute break.” 

“What standard?!” 

Grif ignored him, standing up like it was a monumental task. As if he sensed the gap, Tucker leapt into the empty spot Grif left in the conversation. 

“The only standards we’re working with are the standards of how quickly we can get the fuck out of here. This was such a waste of time. I didn’t even get to use my sword on anything!” 

Simmons heard the familiar crackle of plasma, and then the even more familiar “Tsew!” sound effect Tucker made when he was trying to show off. He got half way through rolling his eyes before something happened. The markings on both sides of the door lit up. “Uhhhh.” 

The door slammed shut. 

*** 

“... Oh shit,” Tucker said, quickly deactivating his sword. Every single time a Temple actually activated, bad shit happened. Unfortunately the door didn’t magically open again just because he turned his sword off. The swirls glowed and hummed, like a machine turning on. Hopefully it was just… the air conditioning? 

“Ambush!” Sarge yelled, pointing in Tucker’s face. “Of all the times to turn on us! During a mission! Why, it’s so low down and underhanded, I might just be forced to respect you, Blue!” 

“Shut up,” Tucker said, mostly on reflex. The door had a bunch of fancy art, but nothing that looked like alien words. “Hey, Santa, what just happened?” 

Normally inside these Temples, Santa was quick to respond to questions asked. But for an achingly long five seconds, nothing happened. Tucker tried again. “Santa?” 

“A moment,” Santa said. He didn’t project a hologram, but his voice did emerge from the ceiling. “This Temple’s connection to the others has fallen into disrepair. I am attempting to repair them while also fulfilling your request.” 

“Request? What request?!” There was no answer. Tucker’s stomach dropped. Nothing he could request by randomly locking a door could be good news. 

*** 

“Tucker!” Simmons started pounding on the door. “Let us out!” 

Simmons wasn’t usually claustrophobic, but he really didn’t want to starve in an alien temple or be found as skeletons by explorers in 1000 years. He’d seen the Indiana Jones movies. 

“Fuck. Are we trapped in here?” Grif’s voice was suddenly so close, Simmons jumped a little. 

“This is all your fault,” Simmons groused. 

“My fault!? What are you talking about? Obviously something fucked just happened with the sword. Guess we’re getting a break now,” Grif sighed. 

“This isn’t a break! This is the opposite of a break! This is an emergency!” Simmons sniffed, and grimaced. “And for fuck’s sake will you put that out?!” 

Grif rolled his eyes almost out of his sockets. “Simmons, it’s a closed door. I know you got the strings tuned pretty tight in there but seriously, this is not an emergency.” 

Grif didn’t put his cigarette out. Instead, he lifted it to his lips and took a long drag, the kind of showy “you can’t tell me what to do” motion Grif did when he was in an especially pissy mood. But instead of being annoyed, Simmons… watched. His attention was rapt, totally focused on Grif’s lips on the filter. 

Grif puffed his lips out, attempting another smoke ring and failing, but the way his lips moved. Simmons couldn’t look away. 

“-Simmons?” 

Simmons blinked. That was weird. “Well, are you going to put out the cancer stick or not?” 

Grif dropped the concern, rolling his eyes. “And if I don’t? What?” 

Simmons’ first impulse, the one he could picture crystal clear in his mind’s eye, was him crowding Grif, getting in his personal space, pushing him up against the wall. Then, he would pluck the cigarette out of Grif’s limp fingers and put it out on the wall near his head. 

He’d have Grif, right where he wanted him. 

Of course Simmons didn’t actually _do_ that. That wasn’t a thing Simmons could just _do_ , no matter how clearly he saw it in his brain. 

“I’m going to hide your cigarettes,” he said, lamely. It was hard to come up with any kind of smooth rebuttal with that image in his head. 

“Gotta get better at hiding shit for that to be a threat.” Grif had that smug look on his face, but instead of going for another drag he put the cigarette out on the wall. 

Right next to Simmons. He took a couple extra steps to do it right in Simmons’ space. 

His first instinct was to recoil. Any other person in the universe crowding his space, he would have immediately shown his neck in submission and scrambled to figure out what he’d done to instigate the aggression. 

But this was Grif. The least intimidating person in the whole world, in his space, with that smug look like a dare plastered across his face. 

Simmons shoved him back. “What the fuck, Grif.” 

Grif blinked, the smug look leaving him, looking slightly confused. 

“Uhhhh…” He chewed on his bottom lip. A rare habit, even when they weren’t wearing helmets. Grif was rarely off guard. 

“Well?” Simmons marched one step into the space he’d created by shoving Grif back, and Grif tensed, and hesitated a step backwards. 

This was a really odd and awkward time for Simmons’ power kink to rise from the depths of his subconscious. But it was so rare to get Grif back… 

“I asked you a question,” Simmons said. Grif wasn’t that much shorter than him, in the grand scheme. Like an inch or two at most. But Simmons used every single centimeter of it to look down into Grif’s eyes. Without the cigarette the only light was a dim, slowly pulsing light green glow along the seams of the walls. They hadn’t been there before, but now they could see even with the door closed. 

In the pulsing light, Simmons could see Grif’s eyes shining with-- 

With… 

The word was right there. On the tip of his brain. But something was holding it back. As though completing the thought was somehow dangerous, crossing the Rubicon. But still Simmons stared, and he couldn’t back down now. 

“You’re so--!” Simmons said, really before he knew where the rest of the sentence was going. But then, mid-sentence, Simmons had an idea. A _genius_ idea. 

*** 

Grif was hard as a fucking rock and he was kind of panicking about it. But not like, _obvious_ panicking. Inside panicking. Panicking like a cool dude who didn’t have a huge boner while locked in a room with Simmons. 

Simmons advanced on him again, shoulders coiling, and if it wasn’t against one of Grif’s codes to ever think of Simmons as cool, he might be giving off the aura of some kind of big cat. Like… ah shit, he couldn’t even think. His mouth was so goddamn dry, and the way Simmons was looking at him, he could tell even through the visor. Like… _prey._ It was really throwing him off. 

“What’s the matter, Grif? You look a little tense. Did you think I was just gonna take it?” 

Another step forward, and Grif was barely aware of shuffling back, feet scraping the floor in his stupid overheated undersuit. 

Simmons was still wearing his helmet. Grif had taken his off to smoke. In the dim light of the glowing green walls, the blank reflective visor looked almost eerie. Grif wished it was off. 

Usually Grif wished Simmons’ helmet was off so he could see the dumb faces he made when Grif messed with him. Now, he just wanted to see his eyes. 

“Nothing to say? No smartass come back?” Simmons leaned in closer, helmet right up in Grif’s face. In the dim light, Grif couldn’t see through the visor at all, but he could make out the barest hints of his own reflection. Fuck, he looked totally flat-footed, he had to get a grip before Simmons said anything else-- 

“If you aren’t going to talk, you could do something else with your mouth.” 

_Oh my god._

His mouth dropped open, mind reeling. The growl in Simmons’ voice made his toes curl and his embarrassingly hard dick gave an affirmative twitch. His mouth… On Simmons… 

Before he could recover, he was shoved back. He hit the floating alien bed with a grunt, scrambling. 

Grif knew, on some level, that there were two options here. Option 1, Simmons was messing around, taking advantage of a rare moment where Grif was off balance and Simmons wasn’t. Grif couldn’t even really get mad about that, turnabout and all that shit, but still. Didn’t help the boner situation. Thank fucking god for armor, even if it was actually starting to hurt his dick, there’s no way Simmons can see just how hard he is. 

Wait, he was running through something, right? Right. Options. Option 2. Simmons meant it. Which meant that Simmons has been replaced by a pod person, because there’s no actual way Simmons _meant_ it. 

Except, he was leaning down over him, getting in close, all eager body language and before Grif could think he said “I can’t do anything with your armor in the way.” 

*** 

The words echoed in Simmons’ head. 

_‘I can’t do anything with your armor in the way.’_

It’s- he just said that to throw Simmons off because Grif knew Simmons’ was getting the upper hand here. Yeah. Was he really going to let him get away with it? 

“Are you going to do something about that?” Simmons made sure to inject as much doubt and derision into his voice as possible. 

Grif audibly swallowed. 

Yeah, see? There was no way Grif was going to keep escalating this. He was bad at chicken, and Simmons wasn’t going to back off after he was so-- 

Grif’s expression morphed into a rare look of calculation and determination, and his hands started fumbling with Simmons’ helmet release. 

Simmons-- froze. Froze entirely. Full on deer in the headlights. Grif took advantage of the opportunity and hit the little button on Simmons’ chin. Some fingers brushed along his neck while Grif did this. The sensation was all Simmons could think about. 

And then Grif lifted Simmons’ helmet. Simmons saw Grif carefully reading his expression. Simmons felt, very suddenly, how flushed he was, how much his heart was pounding in his chest. 

Grif looked Simmons in the eyes, saw something there, and decided something. Simmons couldn’t tell what, but-- 

Then Grif's hands touched Simmons’ codpiece. Hesitantly, for a moment. Simmons felt the tiniest pressure and shift on the metal like it was hardwired direct to his brain, like the rest of his cybernetics. But Grif didn’t hesitate long. Grif looked away from Simmons, and got to honest work undoing Simmons’ codpiece. 

It surprised Simmons, when he first started wearing armor, how easily individual pieces could be put on or taken off. The codpiece especially can be out of the way in moments. Grif somehow did it faster than Simmons had ever seen before, moving like at any moment something was going to stop this. Like if he didn’t do it right then, he was never going to get to. 

And that brought Simmons back to actually thinking about what Grif was doing. 

Grif was going to touch Simmons’ cock. 

Just as Simmons began to process that, actually got all the way to thinking the thought, Grif reached into Simmons’ fly and wrapped a hand around his dick. 

Simmons' entire being froze between one heartbeat and the next. 

Grif’s hand was warm and only slightly calloused, and he gently pulled Simmons out. He wasn’t averting his eyes anymore. Instead they were locked on Simmons’ cock. Grif’s mouth was slightly open, eyes hungry as he explored the shape of him, gently rubbing his thumb up his shaft. 

The corner of Grif’s mouth was wet, and he licked his lips and swallowed. Simmons’ dick twitched in his hand. 

Then, like he’d finally worked up the nerve, Grif shifted off the bed. Not far, but the motion was enough to make Simmons back up a half step. Grif immediately got on his knees, almost falling into position like he couldn’t even wait the extra micro seconds it would take to settle in slowly. His breath ghosted on Simmons dick for only a moment before Grif sucked Simmons’ head into his mouth. 

Simmons’ brain lit up like someone set off fireworks behind his eyelids. 

“H-” Simmons world had contracted to the sensation of Grif’s hot wet mouth, and his hands were in Grif’s thick hair, just looking for a way to hold on. 

Grif made a noise, and slowly took Simmons deeper... And deeper… pausing to relax his throat and huff out through his nose. Simmons’ fingers clenched in Grif’s hair. If he didn’t hold on to something, Simmons was sure he would float right out of his skin. The sensation of Grif’s tight, warm mouth on his dick filled all his senses, consumed his world. 

And then Grif _moaned._

The vibrations ran right up Simmons’ spine, and before Simmons could think about it he half thrust into Grif’s mouth. But instead of gagging or flinching, Grif moaned _again,_ like the only thing he wanted in the world was for Simmons to fuck his mouth. 

There was a reason Simmons shouldn’t do that, probably. But his mind was full of Grif and his warm mouth and his tongue and Simmons didn’t have room to think about anything but _more._

He thrust again shallowly, watching Grif for any protest, but instead Grif’s burning eyes flicked up and locked on his. “Fuck,” Simmons whispered, “Grif.” 

Grif responded by doing something swirling with his tongue, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Simmons got revenge by clenching his hand in Grif’s hair harder, thrusting a little more firmly. “You love this.” 

Grif made a noise like he was attempting to respond, but his mouth was full. Full and stretched around Simmons’ dick and he was _loving it._ “You like my cock in your mouth?” 

“Mm-” Grif bobbed his head to keep up with Simmons’ thrusting, dark eyes dilated and so focused on Simmons. 

“You couldn’t even wait. You got on your knees as soon as I asked.” Simmons wasn’t sure ‘awed’ was the right tone for getting a blowjob, so he thrust into Grif’s mouth again and said, “You _slut.”_

It’s only something Simmons had seen in porn (all of his experience with blow jobs was from porn) but it felt amazing and Grif’s eyes rolled back in his head. He moaned again, not louder than before but longer, more lost in the noise. 

The thrill and the power had Simmons thrusting harder. “Should’ve filled your smart-ass mouth sooner. Give it something productive to do. Every time you fuck up, I’ll shove you down on your knees.” 

Grif choked a little, and then recovered, redoubling his efforts, flicking his tongue on Simmons’ head, swallowing around him, bobbing up and down _on his knees, worshipping Simmons’ cock._

The noises were becoming obscene. Simmons thrust again and again, and Grif took it, loving it, moaning around his cock like he couldn’t get enough. “If you won’t work, I’ll shove my cock in your mouth, teach you a lesson. And you’ll fuck up on purpose just to get it, won’t you? You love it so much, sucking me off like the slut you are.” 

Grif stared up at him, desperate, making another noise, before closing his eyes and working even harder. 

Simmons groaned as the suction became too much. He was so hard, and he wanted to come. God, he wanted to come. “Uhn-” He gulped. “Grif.” 

“Mm…” Grif mumbled vaguely around his obscenely full mouth. 

“ _Grif,”_ he said, more insistently. Everything was building, all the sensations adding up into a cresting wave, a pleasure Simmons knew was about to wash over him all at once, he didn’t have much time left, even though he wanted more than anything for these sensations to last forever. “I’m-- I’m going to--” 

Grif’s eyes flicked back towards his, and they made contact again. In an instant, Simmons knew Grif knew exactly what he meant. 

And Grif bobbed his head down _even farther._

_Oh god, Grif wanted him to come in his-_ His body let go at the realization, the fireworks behind his eyes turned to full on Hollywood-style explosions. 

“Uh, uh, uh-” His hands clenched hard in Grif’s hair, yanking to the roots and hanging on for dear life as he thrust and Grif worked his throat around him. 

“Ghnnnn…” His hips jerked hard as he came in three hard pulses. Grif swallowed every drop as it rushed out of him, groaning around his cock, sucking messily. 

The lights around them seemed to dim and then glow again brighter, Simmons shuddering with aftershocks as he started to come down from the hottest experience of his life. 

Grif hadn’t moved off his dick, and the sensation was so much, _too much,_ tipping over the edge from pleasantly overwhelming to just overwhelming classic. Grif’s eyes were closed, and he was shuddering too. 

“Grif...” Simmons whispered. Grif didn’t respond, still lost in pleasure. 

One more suck officially hurt, so Simmons pulled Grif off of his dick. The noise it made popping out of Grif’s mouth was obscene. 

His lips were swollen, and a shining drop of Simmons’ come was shimmering on his bottom lip. He was the most beautiful thing Simmons had ever seen. 

Simmons’ grip was slack, and Grif almost tipped backwards until Simmons steadied him. “Grif.” 

Grif shivered at Simmons calling his name, mouth slack and eyes meandering slowly to his. _Oh._

“Oh, Grif...” Simmons said again, leaning in as he pulled him up by his shoulder plates, daring to kiss him lightly, and then deeper, settling him back on the bed. “That was so good.” 

Grif shuddered again, making a helpless noise in the back of his throat. Simmons had to take care of him. “So good for me…” he murmured again, kissing him in between as he fumbled to release Grif from his armor. 

Simmons couldn’t imagine not rewarding Grif, not paying him back in kind for the fucking transcendent experience he just had. “Gonna make you feel good too, Grif, you deserve it, you did such a good job--” he kissed Grif’s neck, “Good, good, so good.” 

It was half nonsense, but Grif shuddered and whimpered like Simmons was pouring something directly into his brain, riding waves of sensations too intense to think through. That was fine. Simmons could take the wheel. 

But when he peeled off Grif’s undersuit, Simmons didn’t see Grif with a raging erection that needed his immediate attention. Instead, he saw an all too familiar stain. 

Grif already came. _Untouched._

“Holy fuck.” Grif came just from _sucking his dick._ “Holy shit, Grif--” 

Simmons had to kiss him then. Full on the mouth with tongue. He tasted the bitterness of his own come in Grif’s mouth and groaned as his tongue caressed Grif’s. Grif whimpered back, kissing as best he could, managing a weak hand on the back of Simmons neck. 

“Sim- Simmons-” Grif managed, in a hoarse, wrecked voice. Coming must have been really intense. When he did… because of _Simmons… with Simmons’ cock in his mouth._

Simmons got lost then, lost in the sensation of kissing Grif, tasting himself on Grif’s lips. How could he focus on anything else, after what had just happened? 

All that mattered was kissing Grif. 

Everything else could wait. 


	2. Chapter 2

Simmons was kissing Grif, and Grif could just barely kiss him back.

Everything, _everything_ was so intense. The high of orgasm was still crashing through him, tingling in his dick and nipples, even so long later, and as much as that didn't make any sense it felt too good to be worried about. Nothing this good could be _bad._

Simmons was kissing him, but even though Grif was naked, Simmons wasn’t. His armor was hard and cold, and Grif wanted Simmons to be closer, closer, closer, warm and touching and real— 

Grif pawed at his shoulder plates, ineffectually trying to help Simmons out of his armor. Simmons slowed his kisses, but hesitantly, like he didn’t want to actually stop. His hands fumbled awkwardly behind him, trying to strip his breast plate off without losing contact with Grif. It only half worked. 

Grunting in frustration, Simmons pulled away, leaning back on the bed, away from Grif, and fumbled with the catches and zippers on his armor. 

Grif _whined._ The noise emerged from him, a pure expression of his feelings, because whatever brain filter Grif had to begin with had fled for the hills in the face of this onslaught. 

As Simmons frantically stripped out of his armor, Grif squirmed on the alien bed, lost in sensations and feelings he knew, on some level, he was going to deny in the metaphorical morning. But then, right then, Grif could soak it in. Let future Grif handle the fall out. Present Grif knew that Simmons was giving him everything he ever wanted and wasn’t even being mean about it. He was being… nice. Supportive. _Indulgent._

And that lit sparks in places Grif didn’t even know he _had._

He was starting to _ache._ For what, he didn’t know, but he tried to focus on Simmons revealing more skin and rubbed his thumb around the head of his dick in a circular motion to soothe it. He wasn’t hard again, but that area seemed to think he was. He arched his back and squirmed again, his legs falling open. “Nnnh…” 

Simmons’ armor clattered to the floor. With only the undersuit left, Simmons peeled himself out mid stride, just barely throwing the kevlar off before crawling onto the bed. Crawling practically on top of Grif. 

For a moment, Simmons just stared at him, eyes trailing over Grif’s, lingering on his lips. They must have been so red, from sucking Simmons’ dick and then making out with him. 

Grif couldn’t wait another second. He leaned up and wrapped his arms around Simmons’ back, pulled him in. 

He tasted _perfect._

“Mm—” Simmons voice cracked. He was perfect. So perfect. Grif wanted to be with him forever. They were so close now, skin touching skin like it hadn’t ever before, and it was intoxicating. The warmth in his lower belly went liquid hot and he was aching, arching up into Simmons kissing him deep deep deep. 

_Oh…_ but his nipples were aching now too, slightly swollen and red and he needed to touch them, but his hands were busy holding Simmons close. 

Simmons. He needed _Simmons_ to touch him. Help him with this _aching_ inside him. 

“Touch me,” Grif demanded, voice husky and smoldering. Grif didn’t normally demand things. He didn’t expect them and no one volunteered to do anything for him. 

But Simmons would do it. He would. Simmons was so perfect and good and he _had_ to touch Grif. Simmons had to knead his nipples in his gorgeous long-fingered hands. 

“ _Grif.”_ Simmons whispered in awe, interrupting Grif’s babbling. “Fuck, you can’t just say shit like that.” He looked impossibly turned on for having come only a few minutes ago, but the tension and arousal simmering at a maddening temperature under Grif’s skin only left Grif feeling grateful that he wasn’t alone. 

_“Touch me_ ,” Grif gasped, giving in and sliding one of his hands back down between Simmons’ body and his, down between his legs to where he felt that hollow ache most, to soothe himself. It wasn’t enough anymore. 

Grif took a shuddering breath in, ready to _fucking beg,_ but he didn’t have to ask again. Simmons captured Grif’s swollen left nipple, kneading it between his thumb and forefinger. 

It was a direct line to his groin. A thousand times better than his own hand and lighting him up inside, electric currents shooting from his nipples to his crotch, with no blood or energy left to do anything but cry out needily. 

Grif arched, explosions of sensation rendering him incoherent, bucking his chest up into Simmons’ beautiful strong hands. “ _Ah- More.”_

Simmons obliged. He squeezed and tugged at Grif’s nipple, sending sparks and fire coursing through his veins. Grif held onto Simmons for dear life, squirming and moaning with pleasure. 

And as he watched, something started to happen. Something future Grif would probably be very concerned about, but present Grif could only love. 

Grif felt the insistent warmth in his chest grow hotter and hotter as Simmons touched him, and as he watched, his pecs got bigger. They grew under Simmons’ fingers, soft and round skin, huge and sensitive. They were, without question, breasts. Large ones at that. 

Grif couldn’t think much about it, because Simmons took a handful of his new breast and squeezed it, and that was the best thing Grif felt since he sucked Simmons’ dick. _Mmmmm…_

Everything was shifting, moving, changing, Grif’s body taking on a new shape underneath Simmons. His waist sunk inwards, and it felt amazing, like a sigh of relief. His hips expanded, and with his new flexibility he could wrap his legs around Simmons. Closer, closer, closer. Hhhh... 

“Sim- _Simmons—”_ Grif said, his voice slipping into a higher octave mid word, “ _Simmons!”_

His voice was breathier, higher, different, but somehow not wrong. He tightened his legs and ground up into Simmons. Simmons’ dick was hard again and he could feel it against his inner thigh. So close to where he needed it. It made him dizzy with want, and he worked his fingers harder as he felt a wash of something hot and wet rush out of him, along with another throb of pleasure and want. 

“Uhhhnnnn-” Grif bit his bottom lip hard, cutting off the sound, slowing the movement of his fingers against his clit. He was wet, and his new sex was throbbing so hard it had its own pulse. God, he felt so... _empty._

“Mm… uh. Simmons, Simmons, Simmons.” He moved into Simmons’ hand on his breasts and Grif’s hips up into Simmons’ again, hard, but got very little relief. They had to be closer. Simmons had to be inside him. 

Simmons had to _come inside him._

Grif couldn’t think about anything else as soon as he realized it. 

A new emptiness had opened inside him, a scorching wanton void. He knew down to his very core that it needed to be filled. Filled with Simmons. Fucked and used and _full._

Grif was soaking wet and throbbing. His body was ready to accept Simmons’ seed. He needed it. He needed Simmons to fuck him. 

No, not fuck him. Not _just_ fuck him. 

Grif needed Simmons to _breed_ him. 

Grif gasped at the realization, unable to stop moving his hips against Simmons, but reaching down between them for Simmons’ hard cock. It was warm and hard and dry now, he needed to get him ready. He needed Simmons to fill him up. Come so hard and long that Grif could feel him pulse inside him. 

Grif pulled his cock into a better position so that it glided against his slick parts on the next grind. He moaned when it slid against his clit. He’d make Simmons come so much that it would drip out when they were done, and they’d have to finger it back in. Make sure it took. Then ride Simmons til he had to come again, really make sure he squeezed every fucking drop out of his dick. 

Simmons followed his motions, wrapped up in kissing and grinding and fondling Grif, and all of it felt amazing, but Grif needed _more._ He needed more _now._ He could not stand another moment of this emptiness, this new void inside. That space was made to be filled by Simmons, and Grif couldn’t think of anything he wanted more in the entire universe than for that to happen. 

So he grabbed Simmons by the shoulders, braced himself, and flipped him. 

*** 

It all happened so fast. One moment, Simmons was on all fours on the alien possibly bed, kissing and rubbing Grif all over, feeling as much of him as he could against his body, feeling how soft and hearing those delicious moans, grinding into folds and wetness between his legs, (shouldn’t that be strange? But Simmons’ couldn’t think about it much in the face of so many more important things) and the next— 

His back was pressed onto the soft not quite mattress, and Grif was straddling him, with a burning intensity in his eyes. His eyes didn’t move away as he started sinking down on Simmons’ cock. 

“Ah- _ah-_ ” It was so tight, just around the head. Wet and squeezing. Spasming. 

Grif winced for a second, mouth agape, breathing in short pants, but kept going, gripping Simmons’ shoulders to brace himself as he swiftly impaled himself the rest of the way. 

“Y- _yessssss...”_ His eyes rolled back, mouth open, breasts on full display, belly taut as he settled his wide hips down, his ass so warm and soft and round on Simmons’ thighs. Sitting on Simmons’ cock and taking it to the hilt. 

Simmons didn’t have much time to adjust before Grif bounced up on his knees and thrust back down with a satisfied moan. 

“Mm Simmons- nnn… _fuck,_ Simmons.” He whined, loving it, like he couldn’t get enough. 

Soon he was bouncing in Simmons’ lap, that hot wet heat a welcome vise around him, breasts bouncing along with them as Grif fucked himself on Simmons’ dick. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” he babbled, rocking harder. “I need it. I need it. _More._ ” 

Simmons couldn’t think. He could barely breathe, everything in his mind and body focused in on the sensation of Grif sinking down on his cock, over and over again. He was so hard, and he could feel another orgasm building, building, building, _building—_

It wasn’t enough. As hard as Grif was working, it wasn’t fast or hard enough to get Simmons over the edge. And he needed to cum, needed it more than anything else in the world, he couldn’t wait another second-- 

_Well if Grif could do it—_

And so Simmons sat up, while Grif was all the way down on his dick, and flipped him. 

Everything was sweaty and hot, and Simmons took a moment to breathe, and to _look._

Grif was… different. He was wild eyed and flushed, squirming with lust and even now trying to thrust up onto Simmons’ cock, but even besides that. He had… breasts? And his face, it looked different, not to mention he had a waist? 

All of that visual information crashed into Simmons’ mind all at once, and jammed up the works enough for Simmons to stop and think for a second. 

Grif? Was it even Grif? 

“No, no, Simmons, you can’t stop. Don’t stop. You gotta fuck me. You have to come inside me.” 

It didn’t look like Grif should look anymore, but it still sounded like him. Not like normal Grif, and his voice was higher, but like the time they found an armor speed enhancer and they couldn’t resist taking it for a test drive. Grif sounded like he’d drunk 15 cups of coffee, but he was also more prone to word vomit and showing off for Simmons. It was weird… but kind of cute. He’d been talking like that. But what he was saying… Not like this. 

Grif’s legs tightened around him, pulling his hips closer as he continued to babble. “It’s like… I could burn up inside if you don’t fuck me… I could turn into lava. I can’t- hhhh... You have to fuck me, fill me up.” 

He bucked up again, and Simmons almost whited out from the grasping friction around his cock. From being inside... 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Grif panted. “Fuck me, fuck me.” 

God he wanted to. Simmons wanted to fuck Grif more than he’d wanted anything in his entire life. Grif was clenching around his fucking dick and it made thinking _very very hard._ The babbling only upgraded the desire into a constant burning pressure in his mind. 

But he was _inside Grif._ That wasn’t supposed to be how it _worked._ Something had changed, something had been activated when the door closed and the lights turned on, and even if he wanted it so much, it could be bad. Something could be wrong, no matter how good and perfect it all felt. 

So Simmons, despite his every screaming instinct, started pulling out. He just… he just needed a minute to breathe. 

Grif caught on to what he was doing. He gripped his legs harder on his hips, but Simmons had the better angle. Right as he was about to pop out, totally remove himself from Grif, Simmons caught Grif’s eyes. 

And Grif said “Simmons, _please.”_

The world stopped. 

“Simmons, _please._ I need— I _need this._ I need you. Please, _please.”_

“Grif...” Simmons hesitated. 

The flush was high on Grif’s cheeks, on his so different yet-still-unmistakably-Grif features… 

“Please, Simmons.” Simmons was still pinning Grif by the shoulders, and Grif’s eyes stayed on his, mesmerizing, as he slid a hand softly up Simmons’ arm. “I want you.” 

Simmons spent a fair amount of time looking Grif in the eyes. Maybe not as much as people who didn’t walk around in armor all the time, but a fair amount. More than enough to look Grif in the eyes and see, through the pleasure and the desire, something clear. 

There wasn’t a ‘sure why not’ haze, or a desperate wildfire panic, or something else wearing Grif’s skin. 

Simmons saw Grif, and he saw Grif saying “Yes.” 

Grif wanted Simmons to fuck him. Wanted Simmons to cum inside him. 

Wanted Simmons to _breed_ him. Grif wanted to carry Simmons’ child. 

And that thought solidifying in Simmons’ head was all it took. 

He thrust back into Grif with everything he had, and Grif gasped with pleasure and relief. 

This angle allowed him to go deeper, and he was welcomed back with Grif clenching around him. “S-Simmons-” he said in that new voice, ragged, full lips parted, his hand on Simmons’ arm gripping. Eyes large and lit with the lights around them, saying so much more. 

“Mmm…” On the next thrust in, he kissed Grif, languid and perfect, reveling in the warmth of his love’s embrace, being as close as possible as it was to be with another person. With _Grif,_ who’d been by his side almost half his life now. 

And he was going to be at his side for the rest of it. They were going to make a family. Grif was going to carrying Simmons’ child, and it would be theirs. 

Simmons pulled out and thrust in again, feeling the clench of Grif around his cock, and he said, “Grif… you—” he shuddered, thrust again, growled out “I’m gonna fuck a baby into you.” 

Grif moaned, held Simmons’ shoulders tight. “Yes, yes, yes, come in me Simmons, I want it. I’m— I’m so… so empty--” 

“N— not for long,” Simmons said, pulling out, slamming back in, hard, deeper, faster— “You’re gonna be so full Grif, full of my child, our child, big swollen belly—” 

“Yes Simmons yes yes _yes_ fill me up, do it, do it _please—”_

How could Simmons say no to that? How could Simmons deny the man he loved most in the world anything he wanted? 

Simmons fucked Grif with everything he had. 

“You want it?” He hoisted Grif’s legs up to Simmons’ shoulders, thrusting deeper. “Your belly will get so big you won't be able to walk." 

Grif wailed, rocking harder to meet Simmons’ cock. “Ha- ahhh- Simmons. Please, I want it.” 

Simmons growled, pumping in and out hard. He was so close. 

Grif was panting and moaning, no longer even coherent, just making animal noises of want. Then Grif _whimpered_ , and the muscle around Simmons’ cock _rippled_. 

“Ah— ah— _ahh—”_ Grif moaned, arching up into Simmons, toes curling, _clenching,_ milking his cock so perfectly in the throes of what could only be orgasm. Grif rolled from one orgasm directly into the next, and while he was coming for the second time Simmons felt everything clench— 

And then he came. He came so hard he saw stars. 

He fucked Grif through it all, had to make sure it took, make sure that he didn’t leave Grif empty. Simmons filled Grif with his cum, poured everything he had left inside him. 

He collapsed on top of Grif, panting like he’d just run a marathon, feeling more worn out then he could ever remember being. Of course, he was still too high on afterglow to remember much of anything, so that could have interfered with the results. 

“Mmm... “ Simmons looked down at Grif to see him smirking, eyes in slits like a satisfied cat, and when he saw Simmons looking he nuzzled his face into Simmons’. 

Simmons pressed his lips to Grif’s temple, and then moved down into a slow tired kiss. Not urgent, it felt like a sealing of what they had just done. He felt so warm and content and pride at the expression on Grif’s face. The way he sighed, and wriggled, and stretched sleepily under Simmons. 

As they cooled down, Simmons shifted to his side, wrapping his arms around Grif, not wanting to be even an inch away from him. Feeling protective and possessive and so warm. His hand drifted to Grif’s belly, and Grif sighed again, pressing back into Simmons’ body to be as close as possible. 

Simmons curled up as close to Grif as he could get, and before drifting off to a well earned sleep, he thought— 

It wasn’t so much a phrase, or even a word. But Simmons thought it just the same. It drifted through his head, the sensation of this closeness, repeated for the rest of their days, and how nothing was going to prevent that. It was happy, it was sure, it was protective. 

That was the last thought Simmons had before he drifted off, curled up around the love of his life. 


	3. Chapter 3

Simmons was naked. 

As he woke up, that was the first thing he vaguely noticed. He wasn’t wearing his usual boxers and loose t-shirt. It felt strange, but not too alarming. 

The second thing he noticed was that he didn’t have a blanket. Again, strange, but he wasn’t concerned, especially not waking up this calm and slow. Grif probably just took it again, that happened sometimes. 

But… that was back at Blood Gulch, wasn’t it? Things had changed, new sleeping arrangements, new climate— when was the last time Grif took his blanket? 

The third thing Simmons noticed was that he had his arms wrapped around someone. Someone warm and soft. 

This would be the weirdest thing of all. Simmons didn’t… normally sleep with people in his bed. He and Grif had accidentally fallen asleep together a couple times, but that didn’t count, obviously. And Simmons never had naked people in his bed. Or people so soft and curvy… 

The very naked someone snuffled and turned in his arms to press their head into his chest, and -OH FUCK, WAS THAT A WOMAN? 

Wait no, it was just Grif. That was okay. 

Simmons relaxed again with a sigh. 

… … 

Wait. 

Simmons leapt out of bed, which without the blanket was almost a smooth motion. But of course the person making the move was a panicking, still partly asleep Dick Simmons, so it wasn’t actually that smooth at all. 

He also made a strangled shrieking noise, because of course. 

The person in the bed, who could not be Grif—except that Simmons had the unshakeable ironclad certainty that it was—grumbled and sat up. 

“What the fuck, Simmons?” he—she—they said. 

Simmons’ brain, taking all the insanity it dealt with into account, was a pretty good employee at Simmons, Inc. Sure, it had its quirks; general anxiety, obsessiveness, the occasional outright panic attack, an increasingly unreliable ability to deny the obvious… but overall, it did its job and did it well. 

This however, was really stretching it. Because on the one hand, Simmons looked at the person in the bed and saw Dexter Grif, fellow Red Team member. It was as obvious to him as looking at the walls and saying they were metallic. Trying to doubt or deny it would be doubting or denying his eyesight. 

But the person on the bed that Simmons was sure was Grif had a softer face, and wider hips, and—and breasts, and a—! 

So it was completely understandable that all Simmons could do was stare. His overworked brain was trying to reconcile two ironclad certainties that did not mesh. 

“Grif,” Simmons blurted out, and it was a statement, but also a question. And it was ignored by the person who was definitely-probably Grif, but also definitely not in his normal Grif-shape. 

“Okay,” Grif said, but he wasn’t talking to Simmons. He was staring down at himself. “Okay. This is… This is happening.” He was looking from his breasts to his legs to his hands, seemingly frozen on the bed. “I’m not freaking out.” 

“Grif?” 

“I’m not freaking out, Simmons,” Grif repeated, clearing his throat like that might make his voice go back to the right octave. 

“Okay,” Simmons agreed. They weren’t freaking out. That sounded like a plan. 

“This is... some kind of Blue Team bullshit.” 

"Right, it's—" abruptly Simmons remembered "Tucker!" 

Grif blinked. "Shit, yeah! He waved his dumbass fucking sword around, the door closed, and then…" 

The color drained from Grif's new face. 

"Grif?" Simmons said. He stepped closer and reached out. "What are you—" 

That was when the smell hit him. 

Sex. Sweat. The air was humid with it. 

Grif’s scent was all over him. 

The memories hit like a UNSC freight ship crashing into him. The door closed. Grif was so irritating, Simmons wanted to do something, but Grif moved first. Sucked his dick. Changed. Begged as Simmons fucked him— 

Images of Grif moaning around his cock, Grif with his new body asking him please— 

Simmons realized he was still naked and moved his hands to cover his junk, which was so stupid because it was just Grif, and they’d just had sex, and he thought maybe he might hyperventilate, but he wasn’t, because they weren’t freaking out. They weren’t freaking out. Nope. 

Grif’s mouth was slack, and he looked more in shock than Simmons, which was understandable considering he was not himself at the moment. 

Oddly, seeing Grif look so lost was what released Simmons from his paralysis. 

“Okay, we’re going to get dressed and find Tucker. We’ll fix it.” He grabbed the undersuits from the floor, giving Grif his first. Having something to hold and look at seemed to help Grif too. 

Grif nodded, mouth a strange grim line. 

...His mouth was the same. 

Grif’s face shape was slightly different, a little rounder and less defined, which softened all of his features. When Simmons had met Grif’s sister, he thought they looked alike, and Grif’s sudden changes had just enhanced the resemblance. 

But his mouth was the same. That same mouth that couldn’t contain a shit-eating grin when he said something he knew was wrong so Simmons would correct him. The smirk when he drove him crazy. Those full pouting lips. 

\--Not that Simmons spent a lot of time staring at Grif’s mouth, but it was comforting that parts of him hadn’t changed much. 

Images of those lips wrapped around his cock crashed into him again. 

Simmons broke his stare and busied himself with starting to put on his own undersuit. 

Simmons got dressed in record time, and was just about to click his helmet into place, when he heard a muffled noise of frustration from behind him. 

When he turned to look, he saw Grif, apparently having given up on wearing his undersuit properly, tying the arms around his chest in an imitation of a functional top. At least the bottom half covered everything, even tied awkwardly into place. But worn like that, Grif couldn’t even get into his boots. 

Simmons, without thinking about it, tucked his helmet under his arm. "You good to carry the armor?" 

“Shit,” Grif said. “Fuck, this isn’t gonna work.” He was standing there, even a little shorter than he had been before… everything. His bare shoulders were hunched a little, like he could protect his neck that way. His eyes were… shiny? —No. 

Grif clenched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If I can’t wear it, I can’t carry all of it at once.” 

“Uh... “ Simmons said, uncertain of what to do here. “We’ll find Tucker first then. He can wave his sword, and you’ll get back to normal, and you can just wear it out of here.” 

Grif kept his eyes clenched shut for another moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.” 

But when were their lives ever that easy? 

Simmons was suspicious when the door opened without any fuss. He'd been expecting a whole dumb adventure getting out of the room, involving sending out a distress call and various shenanigans to convince everyone Grif was with him and okay without Grif speaking for himself. That tap-dance accomplished, there would be further nonsense hiding Grif until they could break away from whatever rescue team to talk to Tucker. Tucker would laugh, Grif and Simmons would kick his ass, he would fix it, and they'd all go back to base. 

But the door opened, so none of that happened. That set off Simmons' alarm bells. 

Grif grimaced, but quickly walked out the door. Simmons could tell he was thinking the same thing. 

Without putting on his helmet, Simmons had no way of telling what time it was, no way to gauge how long they'd been asleep. So they could only hope anyone was still there. 

Grif charged ahead of him, and Simmons suspected it might be to escape Simmons looking at him. Which was fair, but he couldn’t help it! It wasn’t even his sudden transformation that kept Simmons staring. It was the way Grif was having trouble guarding his expression. 

Even with the war mostly over they didn’t spend a ton of time out of armor. It was jarring to see Grif’s face and all that skin and how tense and un-Grif-like he was acting. 

...Where was everyone anyway? Not that he wasn’t relieved they hadn’t hung outside the door… listening… to whatever noises might have come through. But the fact that they hadn’t stuck around trying to rescue them still irked him simultaneously. Bunch of assholes. 

Simmons was so busy working himself into familiar exasperated annoyance that he completely didn't notice Grif stop dead in front of him, and then ran directly into his back. 

"Wh—" Simmons said, then he saw why stopped Grif dead and abruptly forgot how words worked. 

Sarge was sitting against the wall of the main chamber, shirtless, and smoking a cigarette. That would already be a lot, but what drove it over the top was Tucker laying across his lap, asleep, significantly more than shirtless. There was no possible conclusion to draw except the obvious. 

"Ghck--" Simmons said. 

"..." Grif said. 

Sarge looked up, made eye contact with them, and almost inhaled his entire cigarette. He coughed violently but still managed to be the first one to speak. 

"How in—" another bout of coughing, Sarge thumped his chest. "—Red blazes did you two get out?!" 

"Uuuuuhhhh…" Simmons tried to answer the question, he really did, but he just could not form the thoughts required, never mind the words. 

Of course, all the yelling and coughing woke Tucker up. It was kind of fascinating to watch his expression shift from sleepy annoyance, to confusion, to realization, to horror, to another subtle flavor of horror, and then circle all the way back around to some denial riddled version of acceptance. 

_Is my face that readable_ ? Simmons thought. _I hope not_. 

Desperately scrambling for anything to say to distract from how naked he was, Tucker predictably latched onto the strangest thing in his eyesight. “Who’s the hot girl?” 

Simmons froze. Grif froze. 

Neither of them had directly addressed what had happened to Grif’s body, and both of them would honestly have preferred not to speak of it until after it was fixed, and probably not even then. 

Sarge blinked as if he had just accepted the two people who had just arrived as Grif and Simmons, and the fact that the person with Simmons did not look like Grif did not compute with his world. 

Tucker, quickly getting wind back in his sails, sat up. "See anything you like?" The effect was somewhat spoiled by Tucker covering himself up with an undersuit. That line really could only be delivered by someone with absolute confidence in their nudity. Tucker didn't have it, but pushed forward valiantly anyway. "Don't be so shy! What's your name? It's gotta be gorgeous for a gorgeous girl like you." 

Simmons bit the inside of his cheek, shuffling quickly up next to Grif as if to protect him. Grif’s shiny eyes in that room when he realized he couldn’t hide in his armor… Shit. How was he going to react to this? Simmons should say something for him, but he couldn’t think. 

"Tucker, shut the fuck up or I’ll tell Wash it wasn’t Palomo who spray painted a dick in the motor pool." 

Tucker's attempt at a flirtatious expression froze on his face. ".... GRIF?!" 

"Yeah, Grif, Dexter Grif, and you can stop with the staring because this is your fucking fault!" he said, squaring his shoulders. 

"My fau—" Tucker's mouth clicked shut. "Oh." 

"Yeah. Oh. That weird closet room we got locked in did some weird shit, and now you're gonna wave your laser sword around and goddamn fix it." 

"Yeah!" Simmons said, mostly to remind everyone he was still there. 

Tucker looked down at the floor, like if he stared at it long enough it could take the rap for everything. Or like he swallowed a lemon. One of the two. 

"Okay… about that…" 

Sarge, as was his habit, broke the bad news with enthusiasm. "That ain't happening!" 

"What?" Both Grif and Simmons said at once. 

"Santa's ah…" Tucker grimaced. "It'll be easier to show you. He pulled out his sword from somewhere in his undersuit (please god his undersuit and not anywhere else, thought Simmons) turned it on and waved it around. 

The Temple's PA activated, but instead of an acknowledgment from Santa, it said— 

"Due to system stress and much needed repairs, I will be unavailable for a period measuring 13.4 planetary rotations on its axis." 

And that was it. 

"It actually does go down, so that's… uh…" Tucker looked genuinely baffled. "What's your face doing?" 

“Thirteen years?” Grif said. Simmons tried a sidelong look at Grif. Grif’s face did look a little ...wavery. 

“If it’s a rotation, it’s days,” Simmons jumped in, stepping into Tucker and Sarge’s eye line. Blocking Grif’s face a little, hopefully. If he lost it in front of the guys right now… Simmons didn’t really know what, but it wouldn’t be good, and they were already having a hell of a day. 

Simmons continued. “Right? Chorus days are the same?” Thirteen days. Thirteen days wasn’t forever, but it wasn’t going to be quick. 

Tucker looked annoyed. “How the fuck should I know? A day’s a day.” 

“Any day is good enough for beating Blues and shooting Gri—” Sarge paused. “Aw, dangit, Grif’s a girl. I can’t point a shotgun at a lady! It ain’t decent!” 

Grif’s expression flipped from— that emotion Simmons refused to name for both their sakes, to a familiar pissed off expression only Sarge could earn. 

“I’m not a girl, or a lady, or whatever the fuck this fucking bullshit is,” Grif snarled, his expression turning angrier than he usually ever got, or ever showed. “I’m still me, goddammit.” 

Sarge blinked. Tucker guiltily turned his sword off, making the power-down sound effect quietly. 

Simmons felt like he should say something, back Grif up, but the look on Grif’s face froze him too. His mouth opened, but he was coming up blank. 

Before he could say anything, Grif let out an angry breath. “I’m getting the fuck out of here,” he said, and walked toward the exit to the temple without another look at anyone. He held himself stiffly as he walked away. 

Simmons stared after him. 

*** 

The three of them exited the temple, fully armored again now, with Grif’s armor in tow. Simmons had replaced his helmet as well to free up his arms. 

As they approached, Simmons spotted tan legs hanging out of the backseat of the warthog. It almost stopped him in his tracks again. Simmons still wasn’t used to seeing Grif, any version of Grif, without his armor on. 

His legs were… nice, shapely, resting crossed out the window. 

Sarge went ahead to the driver’s seat. Tucker looked between Simmons and Grif’s legs, and scurried over to the front passenger side, leaving Simmons to deal with Grif. 

_Thanks, Tucker. This is your fucking fault._ But he would have probably shoved Tucker if he tried to sit with Grif anyway. It was just the other two’s hesitation, and the look in Grif’s eyes earlier when he realized his armor wouldn’t fit, that made Simmons feel a little nervous to see Grif. 

It was so hard to read him sometimes, and when he was upset, it felt like anything Simmons did would just make it worse. 

Simmons shouldn’t have worried about what he was supposed to say or do, though. When he got to the vehicle, Grif had an arm thrown over his face and he was snoring theatrically. Obviously faking, but that took a ton of the pressure off. 

Grif had his head on Simmons' seat, and normally he'd yell about that, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he gently but firmly lifted Grif's head up, and sat in his spot. 

Grif didn’t move, didn't even make a sound the entire motion. Simmons expected Grif to sit up and switch positions, but he didn't. He laid his head down on Simmons' armored lap and kept pretending to be asleep. 

It had to be uncomfortable, not to mention unsafe, but Simmons couldn't— Couldn't. He just Could Not. So he watched Grif and watched the road, keeping an eye out for potholes that might jostle Grif. A loose hair fell into Grif's face, and Simmons smoothed it away without thinking about it as the warthog started and they made their way back to home base. 


	4. Chapter 4

Grif knew he was not going to make it to his room and his shower without some fucking bullshit. After everything else, why would the universe be nice to him now? He was riding in the back of a warthog, with his undersuit tied around his body like a complete dumbass, his brain wouldn't stop helpfully constructing images of Sarge and Tucker _fucking,_ and he had huge goddamn sensitive TITS. 

Grif rubbed his legs together despite himself. The absence between them had been getting more noticeable by the hour, and if Grif hadn't already decided he wasn't freaking out he could have flipped his shit about it. Multiple times. 

But the worst thing, worse than the tits, being exposed, or the haunting mental images, was--the things Grif was using those to ignore. 

Like the way Tucker and Sarge kept looking at him in the rearview mirrors, all bewildered. 

Or the way that Simmons kept running delicate touches through Grif's hair without thinking about it. 

Or the cum that was _still inside his—_

There was a long list of shit Grif was ignoring in favor of things that just pissed him off, okay? 

The fake snoozing gave way to a real doze eventually, which despite Grif’s vast talent in the area of sleeping in uncomfortable positions in unlikely places, was still unlikely seeing as his pillow was Simmons’ leg armor. But the familiar rumble of the warthog, smell of diesel, and yeah even Simmons’ gloved hand in his hair, was comforting enough for Grif’s body to override the fucked up-ed-ness of his whole weird life right now and give in to bone and flesh deep exhaustion. 

“Grif,” Simmons said softly, and Grif realized the warthog wasn’t moving anymore. His eyes darted to the front, and Sarge and Tucker were already gone. 

“Yeah,” Grif grunted back, the situation slamming back into place as he realized his legs were cold, but still tacky with dried sweat. Ugh. 

He sat up, and looked around the motorpool. Empty, except for them. That was… weird. The motorpool wasn’t exactly a hopping club scene, but it was usually pretty active. 

“Uh,” Simmons said, “apparently the alien shit wasn’t just what—uh, wasn’t just in the temple. I don’t know, but Kimball’s gonna debrief us in like, three hours?” 

Grif grimaced. His face must be a goddamn billboard right now. He couldn’t get his shit under control, and without a helmet he may as well be broadcasting his fucking secret diary to the entire planet. Metaphorical diary. Whatever. This whole train of thought was too stupid for words. 

“I need a shower,” Grif said, because he really needed a shower. And to be in his room. And to not be _out_ of his room for the next two weeks. 

Simmons nodded. He was doing that thing with his hands, the one where he clasped them real tight in front of him so he wouldn’t fidget. Simmons wanted to say something but was biting his tongue about it. Normally Grif would poke at that a bit, some of the best shit Simmons ever said was stuff he tried not to say first, but— 

No. Not right now. Not like that. Not with… _stuff_ still inside him. 

So Grif walked off to his room without another word. Thank God and Jesus Whoever The Fuck Else that he didn’t see anyone on the way. And that he didn’t step on anything in bare feet. 

He shut the door behind him and stood in his room. His blankets were still in a big ball on his bed where he had crawled out of it with Simmons nagging at him this morning. It was tempting to just hide in it, but it would feel better showering first. Especially since he already had to see Kimball and Grey later, ugh... 

Pulling some clothes out of the cleanish pile on the floor, he had to reconsider and get a bigger shirt. 

He was starting to feel an ache, sore, in his inner thighs. Not bad, just a reminder of the extremely athletic activities he’d been up to outside his armor. The weight of Simmons holding up his legs, the intensity in his eyes. And now that Grif was alone he didn’t have to banish the image of Simmons fucking him immediately, but he closed his eyes hard and dug his nails into his palms. He didn’t want to think about what they did, because it could have changed everything. Not just Grif’s body. 

Fuck. 

Okay, clothes. Shower. Bed. Simmons would grab him for that meeting he didn’t want to go to, but until then he’d have some time to not-think. 

Thank god he didn’t have to use the communal showers. One plus to technically being officers, was that Grif and Simmons had officer’s quarters with a bathroom in between connecting the rooms. It was actually pretty fancy considering the bases they used to live in, and the quarters most of the Chorus soldiers still had. 

And considering that Simmons implied similar crazy hook ups had happened all around the colony, trying to get a shower right now would be a fight. And god, he didn’t want to run into anyone else right now. What if one of the kids saw him? Bitters. Or _Matthews._ His not-friends of over a decade seeing him this way had been bad enough. 

Grif got out of the tied up undersuit, set out the clothes on the bed, grabbed a towel, and marched with as much confidence as possible into the bathroom. He was going to have a normal shower, clean himself out, wash off all the sweat and smells, and then nap until Simmons got him. Easy. Easy-Peasy-Lemon-Squeezy. 

Then Grif caught his reflection in the mirror. 

He stopped cold. 

His reflection was… freaky. His face was different, a little softer, a little rounder. He didn’t have any stubble either, and the lack of it made him feel like a baby. His hair wasn’t different though. Still tied back in the same tiny ponytail it always was. So this alien crap wasn’t working from some kind of Girl Template, that was alright. 

Grif… kind of looked like Kai. Even more than he already had. People talked about the family resemblance a lot, and now he looked like her sister instead of her brother. 

Thinking about being a ‘sister’ made Grif grimace, and dragged his gaze downwards towards his chest, and its two new inhabitants. 

They were. Big. 

Grif did not think of himself as a boob man. He thought of himself as a ‘whole package’ sort of person, who admired boobs, butts, legs, hips, and faces equally. Describing one part as his favorite always felt like saying the top part of the oreo was the best. Oreos are the best as oreos, two cookies with cream inside. 

_Cream inside—_

Grif slammed that train of thought off a cliff. One thing at a time. He was freaking out about how huge and perky his boobs were right now. 

Wait. Shit. Wasn’t he not supposed to be freaking out? 

_Too late now, I guess._

Grif decided that the only logical course of action was to complete the picture and go freak out in the shower. At least then he was multitasking. 

The water on Chorus always started ice cold, moved to scorching hot, and then landed somewhere in the range of lukewarm to actually decent, if the stars lined up. The ritual completed, Grif was surprised to discover that today was one of those days and the water ended up a soothing but not burning temperature. 

Okay. That finished, now it was time to get to work. 

Grif stepped into the spray, and the heat of it on his skin hit him right in the tension and he sighed. Goddamn, this was good. 

For a while Grif just stood there and let the water run over his head, washing away the tacky dry sweat and the gross feeling in his hair. He managed to not think about anything for a whole two minutes. 

And then. 

_Fuck, I’ve gotta clean myself out._

Grif opened his eyes and stared at the tile like everything was its fault. He did not want to do this. He _really_ didn’t want to do this. But the idea of walking around with-- with-- with Simmons’ _cum_ inside him all day… 

Something stirred, like a gathering heat. 

Okay, without interrogating that reaction at All, logistically Grif did _not_ want a drying out foreign substance inside of him, so he was going to suck it up, get his fingers in there, and get goddamn clean. 

Grif reached down with purpose, as though he really was just going to reach in and get it over with, but once his fingers made contact with the soft folds, the simmering heat from before flared up. He inhaled sharply, and slowly let it back out. 

This wasn’t working, he was too keyed up. Maybe… maybe if he got used to touching the rest of it first, he could build up to doing what needed doing? 

Grif looked down, and the most obvious new additions stared him in the face. Before he could think about it anymore than he already was, Grif cupped a boob in each hand. 

…Well, it was certainly a thing he was doing alright. Why were guys in anime so into this? Mostly it felt like holding his stomach up except in two discrete pieces. Urg. Unpleasant image. 

He squeezed, and that actually wasn’t bad. Grif couldn’t quite describe it, but the squeezing felt pretty nice, in a weird way. 

It was a spiral of sensation, from his tits… down. Not that intense, it just felt warm. He closed his eyes and reached one hand back down. Get it done. He bit his lip as he ran his fingers back over his folds, catching the fluid there over his fingers, and letting the water run over them to rinse it out. 

He couldn’t help picturing Simmons over him, growling filthy promises in his ear. Thrusting. 

Grif licked his lips, rubbing his thumb over a nipple, remembering how he begged Simmons to touch them. It felt good then too, and remembering made the current sensations more intense. 

Grif’s toes curled on the slick shower floor as he rubbed his fingers down there to rinse himself again, lingering. This time he brushed his clit on his way. His thighs squeezed shut around his hand reflexively. 

No wonder girls were so focused on it, even just brushing against it a _little—_

Grif blinked, and realized abruptly he was soaking wet. In both senses of the word. Mother _fucker_ it totally snuck up on him. Grif stood there staring for a long minute. 

Then he touched his clit with purpose. 

It felt like hitting a goddamn switch. His entire brain lit up, and his hand smacked against the tile before he even knew what he was doing. Grif started to rub, small, light circles, and it was _so good,_ he moaned without even thinking about it. 

It felt so good and overwhelming it took him a second to recognize the crash and quiet swearing as coming from Simmons’ room. A wall away. 

Grif froze, feeling a weird mix of awkwardness and guilt and that throbbing warmth that Simmons might have just heard him. 

The awkwardness won out though, and he took his hand out of the cookie jar, turning the water off and avoiding looking at his body again as he toweled off. 

Good enough shower. Time to sleep for as long as possible before he had to face the firing squad. 

*** 

“Grif,” Simmons called him way too soon. 

Grif groaned and rolled over, pulling the ball of blankets into his chest like a stuffed animal. 

“Grif, come on, we gotta go to the meeting.” 

At this point, Simmons would normally already be bitching at him and ready to bodily dump him out of the bed, but his voice was soft again, which reminded Grif of how soft he had been in the warthog earlier, which reminded him of what happened. 

His eyes opened. “Goddammit.” He still had tits. Great. Awesome. No magical nap would make the spell wear off. “Do I have to go? Can’t you just tell them?” 

“I’m pretty sure they want to see you in person, and Grey can make sure there’s nothing… wrong…” 

Grif lifted his head to look at Simmons flatly. 

“Yeah, I heard it,” Simmons said. “You still have to get up.” 

Grif was slightly pleased he could still make a drawn-out exaggerated sigh, and get Simmons’ same annoyed bitch-face in reaction. This dance was hard wired into them at this point. 

But processing the relief at the pinched expression Simmons was making as Grif rolled himself up to pull on pants, he realized Simmons wasn’t wearing his armor. He was dressed in a neat ironed button up shirt and slacks, standing there with his arms crossed. 

The war was over, other than their little clearance missions, but most people were still in the habit of wearing their armor, even in home base after years of combat. One of the reasons the Reds and Blues fit in so well with these guys. Grif was the only one that wouldn’t be able to wear any. He’d even tried again after his shower. No dice. Not even the undersuit would squeeze on with his new body shape. 

But everyone else at the meeting would be wearing armor. It was weird Simmons would’ve changed out of his. Why did he— 

_He did it because of me._ The realization made him more aware of his heartbeat, and he looked down so he wouldn’t stare at Simmons. Grif glared at his jeans as he zipped them up. He didn’t want pity from Simmons, but they’d known each other so long Grif couldn’t even characterize it as pity. He was… worried. He _cared._ About Grif. 

Grif grimaced at the warm feeling in his chest that he didn’t have time for right now. He hopped off the bed, trying to hide how off-balance his new center of gravity made him. “Well, let’s go if we’re going then.” 

The halls were usually full of people on their way somewhere, lots of talking, but there weren’t many people around. Definitely the aftermath of chaos here. Everyone had already had their showers, done their walks of shame, and were in their own rooms recovering from the embarrassment of hooking up with someone random. 

Grif wanted to be in his room again. He realized he was hugging his midsection and forced his arms to relax. 

The more fine he acted, even with this weird shit going on, the faster this meeting would go. And he could go back to hiding in his room for the next two weeks. 

They got to Kimball’s office without incident. She had picked one closer to the war room proper, but it meant that her office didn’t have any windows, or much room. Grif was thankful, because a lot of the other offices had windows somewhere, and the less people looking at him like this the better. 

“Right on time. Excellent. Now if we could just go over exactly what hap--” Kimball paused midword, and looked Grif up and down. “Um. Were you on the mission with Captain Simmons?” 

Oh great. No one had explained it to her. Fantastic. “Look, can we skip this bit? Hi, yes, I’m Dexter Grif, oh wow, shocked faces, comedic backtracking, etc etc.” 

“You don’t just say etck etck. It’s ecetera ecetera.” 

“Whatever, Simmons.” 

Kimball seemed to be glitching, not that Grif was studying her reaction or anything. Only a couple more minutes and this would be over and he could hole up until the 13 days were over. 

Doctor Grey, who had been impatiently doing something on her datapad, stopped. He could _feel_ the intensity of her focus switching. 

She strode to him, touched his shoulders, squeezed and pressed down. “Hm.” 

Simmons twitched next to him, making an aborted move to-- something? 

He kind of wished he could be saved from this. Only a couple more minutes- 

Even though Grif was wearing clothes now, Grey’s scientific scrutinization made him feel naked. He stood completely stiffly as she felt his bones, picked up his arm, squeezed intermittently from the biceps down to his fingertips. “This is _fascinating._ Captain Tucker mentioned some kind of incident with alien technology triggered events here, but _this-”_

“Okay!” Simmons said, suddenly. He’d gotten between Grey and Grif at some point. “Can we debrief first? Get that out of the way?” 

Kimball came back online with a couple slow blinks. Grif could almost see the little loading symbol hovering over her head. 

Simmons started to tell Kimball and Grey how they got locked in some kind of alien closet, Tucker’s fault. “Nothing weird happened at first except we were locked in. We yelled for Tucker to let us out and then… uh…” 

And then, shit happened. That was when Grif got on his knees. That was when they fucked, and somewhere in there, his body changed. 

It was hard to remember when exactly it started, the memory all interspersed with Grif asking Simmons to touch him. Color and HD quality sound of skin hitting skin, Grif begging for him, digging his fingers into Simmons’ shoulders... 

Grif swallowed, and felt oddly grateful that Simmons was between him and Grey and taking the lead here. Even though it was obvious what the pause meant since basically the whole territory had been up to what they’d been up to. Simmons needed the rescue now. 

“So no one else got the souvenirs I got?” Grif asked, pointing to the boobs, effortfully making his voice drawl casually like this wasn’t the most awkward conversation since his little sister asked him to explain what sex was. 

“Not that anyone has reported…” 

“I can add some certainty there!” Grey said, looking over her datapad. “I’ve seen almost everyone on base over the last 24 hours, mostly to hand out various birth control or anti-STD measures. No one’s reported anything quite so…” she struggled for a word. “Radical!” 

She sidled up to Grif, and he did not like that shit at _all._ “It’s truly fascinating… are these changes purely cosmetic, or do they extend all the way into your DNA? Ooooh, you might be lucky enough to experience a fascinating new kind of organ rejection!” 

Ugh. That was a really good fucking question. How much had his body changed? 

Grif instinctively hugged his abdomen, where all Simmons’ organs were swimming around in his guts. 

Simmons butted in between them. Dr. Grey looked him in the eyes and smiled that sharp smile of hers. The one that was basically a threat, but she hadn’t decided to commit to it yet. 

“Are we going to do a check up here or what? Cause if you aren’t, I don’t see what this has to do with being debriefed.” 

Dr. Grey decided to commit to her threat. “Captain Simmons! I hope you aren’t getting in between a doctor and her patient! That doesn’t work out great for anyone! I have to take on more work, Kimball gets blood on her floor, you lose some soft tissue, it's all one big mess!” 

Simmons flinched. Grif waited for him to back down and apologize, maybe toss in a ‘Please don’t kill me’ for good measure. Simmons didn’t move. 

Grif felt an familiar-and-unfamiliar warmth pool in his belly, looking at Simmons’ rigid back to him. He was… was he protecting Grif? 

He felt his face do something he hadn’t given in permission to do again--he was still really fucking exhausted and that nap had been a drop in the bucket. 

Grif clenched his eyes shut and swallowed it all back. Now wasn’t the time to have fluttery feelings. Doctor Grey wanted to cut him open and see if his organs were any different! 

“Well, this has been such an awesome meeting. Now we all know what happened. Really great debrief, everybody.” Grif clapped his hands like he was dismissing them. He really should help Kimball out. She looked like she needed more processing time too. “I’m gonna go ahead and take a two week vacation, Kimball. Santa’s gonna come back online in thirteen days or whatever, and then things will be back to normal. We don’t even need to talk about it ever again. As a matter of fact, let’s not. Sounds great, right? It’ll be like it never even happened.” 

Kimball blinked at him. “We have had a few people ask for a few days off duty due to… duress. I don’t want it to get to be more people than I can spare, and that’s longer than I would normally like to have a captain on a pass, but with your...” Kimball gestured at him, and Grif crossed his arms over his chest. Kimball stopped waving at his boobs, clearing her throat awkwardly, “With your extenuating circumstances, your leave is granted.” 

“Okay, see everyone in two weeks.” Grif turned on his heel and left before Grey could go after him with a scalpel or something. He was moving so fast, he didn’t realize Simmons was following at a brisk pace. Like they were still connected at the hip. Like what had happened over the last twelve hours hadn’t blown everything up. 

Something inside Grif went soft and melty, like it was _relieved,_ and Grif knew he had to stop this _now._

See, Grif knew that feeling. He knew that feeling like other soldiers know the sound of alien guns warming up, or other kids know jangling keys being clumsily jammed into front door looks. A prelude. A warning sound. The second Grif let his guard down, started considering the possibilty of maybe opening up, it all went to fucking shit. He knew he could trust Simmons (hell, any of the Reds, even any of the Blues) with his life. 

He couldn’t trust Simmons with his heart. 

Ugh, listen to him. His inner monologue had gotten all flowery. Another bad sign. 

When he got back to his room, he hit the door close button with his closed fist and Simmons had to jump to avoid the metal door coming down directly on his foot. 


End file.
